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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25267075">Whisper of the sea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coronet/pseuds/Coronet'>Coronet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sounds of the sea [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>70th Hunger Games, Angst and Romance, Canon Compliant, District 4 (Hunger Games), F/M, Family Loss, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Translation of my own work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:33:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,114</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25267075</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coronet/pseuds/Coronet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The odds are not in Annie Cresta's favour on her last harvest day. Just one step away from beeing free of the threat of the Hunger Games she gets reaped - and no one volunteers. <br/>Despite death looming over her she wants to fight, if not for her own good, then for the survival of her unlucky tribute companion, who is only twelve years old. Even if it means that she has to leave her family behind.<br/>But the games are unpredictable, as are the mentors from District Four, most notably the ever-popular Finnick Odair. They have their very own ideas about the games... and falling in love should not be one of them. But stubborn Annie and her courage for others slowly creep up on Finnick, and Annie has to realize that nothing is what it seems like. But their feelings might bring them both into danger...</p>
<p>Translation of my own fanfiction titled "Meeresflüstern", first published in German in 2012.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sounds of the sea [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830529</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            A translation of

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/648487">Meeresflüstern</a> by Coronet.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Welcome to the 70th annual Hunger Games!<br/>As we all know these are Annie Crestas games, but what exactly happened to make her the poor, mad girl from District four? This is what I set out to explore back in 2012, when I first wrote this story in German. This is a translation with slight amendments to the original. As english is not my first language there will most likely be errors. I try my best, but please forgive me if there are some mistakes.<br/>I do truly love the Hunger Games series and Annie Cresta has always had a special place in my heart. That's why I wanted to give her a voice to tell her story, about loss and slow healing. This story has been with me for the last eight years and today I decided that I also want to share it with a broader audience. I hope you'll like the way I wrote hers (and Finnicks) story.<br/>May the odds be ever in your favor!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Whisper of the sea</b>
</p><p>
  <b>The 70<sup>th</sup> annual Hunger Games</b>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Gently rushing waves break on the beach. They bring with them the smell of seaweed and the feeling of salt on my lips. The water is still quite warm at this time of year. Relaxed, I feel the water swirling around my feet, as I slowly sink into the fine sand. A fresh wind blows through my hair. When I close my eyes, it almost seems as if the world is peaceful. Breathing evenly, I let my dark thoughts fly away, let them fly in my imagination high above the sea, above the destroyed fortifications on the horizon that once held us captive, into the evening sun. Only a deep feeling of lightness remains. I have not stood here and listened to the sea for far too long. For the first time in a long time I feel like myself again. The endless expanse of the ocean in front of me seems to give me strength, unlike the narrow corridors beneath the surface of District 13.</p><p>Whispering, the sea awakens old memories in me, of days I thought long forgotten, people I lost long ago. It is like an old friend welcoming me after a long day to take me into his arms. A melancholic smile steals onto my face as I remember the day so many years ago when it all began. Had it not happened, I would not be standing here today, but still my heart weighs heavily with the experiences that brought me here. And yet I would do it again, make every sacrifice again. He believed in it too, until the end. I sigh at the memory of him, but while I listen to the whisper of the sea I cannot help but feel loved. A lonely tear runs down my cheek as the memories overwhelm me.</p><p>***</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was still deep in the night when the dormant population of the fourth district of Panem was torn from its well-deserved sleep, because a shrill siren suddenly sounded through the night. It was clear to everyone what this meant, for the siren sounded only when either the last tribute of the district was about to fall in the unspeakable Hunger Games, or, and this was the more beautiful thought, when the tribute was in the final, and victory seemed almost within reach. The Hunger Games, those were </span>
    <span>the </span>
    <span>annually recurring "games", hard to surpass in cruelty, which had once been proclaimed by the government of the country, as a punishment, because the bravest of each district had joined forces and proclaimed a rebellion against the distant </span>
    <span>c</span>
    <span>apit</span>
    <span>a</span>
    <span>l behind the mountains, the so-called Capitol. It was so that the districts, thirteen in number, had to do all the work in the country </span>
    <span>destroyed</span>
    <span> by devastating natural disasters, they tilled the dry fields and dyed the clothes, but </span>
    <span>they weren’t allowed to use the fruit of their work themselves, </span>
    <span>as a reward for their efforts, but almost </span>
    <span>everything </span>
    <span>without exception ended up in the Capitol, which had been basking in its own splendour since all times and never gave a single thought to the hard-working districts and its inhabitants. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thus it happened that a terrible war of the Districts against the Capitol began and it came as it does in all dark legends: they fell victim to the Capitol, the thirteenth District was destroyed and once again they were buried under the power of the Capitol, even harder and more severe than the last time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Their punishment was the hunger games. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The story I want to tell you begins on a day when, for the 65th time already, these games were committed. The district that plays a significant role in this story is the fourth district, the district of sea and fish. Day in, day out, the fishermen went out to sea, under the strict control of the peacekeepers, to deliver their catch to the factories, which processed it into exquisite delicacies for the Capitol.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The inhabitants were hence awakened by their alarm clocks at night to gather in front of the television and watch the final of the 65th games, as was obligatory. No one but the sickest of the sickest were exempt from this duty. From the youngest offspring to the oldest man, everyone gathered and watched the whole day as their bravest boy, not even quite a man, fought off his strong and much older opponent with only a golden trident. This fight for survival lasted until the afternoon, but in the end the tribute was indeed defeated. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Relief, rejoicing and cheerfulness spread throughout the district, and in a hurry everything was prepared for a short but exuberant celebration, for no matter how sad the games were every year, once victory was certain, there was only unrestrained joy for a moment, that death had not come over their brave tribute. As far as his health allowed, the Tribute was taken to his home district as quickly as possible and the Capitol sent a large selection of the finest food for once. For the next time, that was clear, they would be well off. And the next games were still a long way off…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Laughter filled the narrow streets between the houses. The pent-up heat had reddened their faces and the wine, which today, but only today, flowed abundantly, did the rest. Chains of lights stretched between the narrow houses and colourful candles on the tables created an oasis of light in the darkness of the night. Tonight there was not even a curfew, which was an event that no one voluntarily spurned. The official part of the celebration was long done. The victorious tribute, an athletic 14-year-old with sun-tanned skin and bronze hair, had already been presented on the podium in front of the town hall. Speeches had been delivered, and a heroic cut of his highlights from the games had been shown. But now the richly decorated podium had long since been abandoned, tribute and mentors had got lost somewhere in the crowd.<br/>
But the adults were still sitting together, while the children and teenagers in groups of different ages roamed the area playing pranks, scooping food or just enjoying this special day, which made them forget all the suffering they had experienced until then. For one blissful moment, the hunger games seemed far away, even though they had only just ended.<br/>
"Annie, Annie, come!"<br/>
Excitedly, a boy of about 14 years of age ran through the alleys, nimbly hooking around the tables and turning around again and again, for behind him ran a younger girl whose dark hair waved wildly behind her as she ran as fast as she could, but she still couldn't keep up with the older boy.<br/>
"Wait for me!"<br/>
For a moment the boy paused, waiting for the girl to catch up to him, then grabbing her hand and pulled her along.<br/>
"What's your hurry?"<br/>
"The others say the winner is down by the beach! I'm dying to get a closer look at him!"<br/>
The path led them further and further through the maze of alleys, away from the festival. It was a district secret that every alley, wherever it started, always ended at the sea. From a gentle hill, on which the town hall was situated, the big city that made up the district stretched to the sea, where the fishing boats were moored up on a wide concrete pier. On the other side, on the slopes of the hill, the factories where fish was filleted, portioned and packed deep-frozen rose up gloomy. But now at night the assembly lines rested. A little further away from the dirty harbour basin, however, there were still strips of unspoilt beach with only the simple wooden huts of the poorest people standing nearby. Windskew shingles that were hastily cobbled together, covered with cloths and plastic tarpaulins. Some of them used illegal nets here to catch at least a few smaller fish for themselves. But even here the fishermen rested tonight and did not miss the big party on the hill. For many of them it was the only possibility to get a full belly for once.<br/>
<span>The closer the two children got to the sea, the stronger the taste of salt and the sound of the </span><span>waves</span><span> became. Gradually the path darke</span><span>ned</span><span> and when they finally came panting out of the last alley, they were surrounded by </span><span>only </span><span>the blu</span><span>eish hue of the</span><span> night. The beach </span><span>lay </span><span>in </span><span>complete</span><span> darkness.<br/>
</span>Fascinated, the girl laid back her head and saw the multitude of stars shining above. With big eyes she peered up to the distant sparkle.<br/>
"Wow," was all she whispered, "I keep forgetting how beautiful it is down here at night."<br/>
Teasingly, the boy laughed by her side.<br/>
"You see, if it wasn't worth it just for this. You shouldn't always worry so much about the peacekeepers, they're all drunk at the feast today, too. But come on, let's go."<br/>
Together they walked down the beach, where a large group of children and young people had already gathered. Some of the more courageous amongst them had stolen a torch from the feast, which now continued to burn rammed into the soft sand, a tiny spot of light in the pitch black night. They whispered excitedly.<br/>
"I saw him run away, he was here somewhere, I tell you!"<br/>
"Do you think he's dangerous?"<br/>
"I'd love to hear his stories from the arena!"<br/>
But in this moment they were the only ones on the beach. Undecided what to do, they sat in a circle around the torch. One of them began to retell the heroic tale of this year's victorious tribute. It was richly embellished and, above all, much more heroic than what had happened in reality. Of course, none of these children had their own experiences with the games, so nobody knew about the sad reality. Instead, the countless brutal and bloody deaths of the 23 other tributes were mentioned rather briefly. But already during this performance most of them were shivering, especially the girl that had come with her friend. But you couldn't blame them because they were almost all still so young and when a Tribute died, most parents had their children's eyes covered or tried to keep them away from the TV altogether. For them, the supposed glory of victory overshadowed everything at that moment. They felt a distant fear of the games, but with the festivities in full swing, hardly anyone could resist the idea of being celebrated as a winner. After all, there was a school in their district for all those who wanted to train for the games. The current winner had trained there, volunteered and survived. In their naive view it worked. Once you were a winner, you could live carefree up in the village of the winners where you lacked nothing – or so they thought. But with age their perspective would change.<br/>
The brown-haired girl had none of these dreams. She would rather continue to help her father with the fishing. She would love to see the great Capitol, because it had to be really impressive. But she preferred to be here in her district, by the sea, when the weather was good and everything was glistening in beautiful sunshine. Soon she did not feel like listening to the stories of the others. The boy she had come here with, on the other hand, seemed to be deeply immersed in the conversation and joined in the wildest speculations about what had happened in the arena.<br/>
In the faint light of the torch that had been burned far down, no one noticed how she retreated into the shadows.<br/>
<span>She walked down the beach, her feet in the water. </span><span>They</span><span> w</span><span>eren’t</span><span> allowed to come here, but there was no one patrolling here tonight. </span><span>Down</span><span> at the beach the sea was much more beautiful than at the harbour she thought. So pure and peaceful. In the moonlight the stones on the beach glittered. She picked up one of them to let it bounce over the waves. For a while, she made the stones jump like that before she got bolder. </span><span>She</span><span> went </span><span>a few steps </span><span>deeper into the water and let </span><span>her hands </span><span>slide through </span><span>it</span><span>. The peacefulness of the moment surrounded her, the fear of peacekeepers forgotten. When she closed her eyes, it sounded as if the sea wanted to whisper something to her. She forgot about time </span><span>while</span><span> listening to the waves, until a treacherous splash to her side startled her. Fearful, she wanted to step back, expecting to see a peacekeeper stomp </span><span>towards</span><span> her, </span><span>but</span><span> she slipped in the soft mud at her feet and plunged into the shallow water. </span><span>I</span><span>t was only a boy </span><span>though, </span><span>who emerged from the sea. Immovabl</span><span>e</span><span> they looked at each other for a moment before the boy conspiratorially put a finger to his lips. With big eyes she watched him come out of the water, completely wrapped in </span><span>fine </span><span>clothes. She knew him. After all, he had been all over the television - the winner of the 65th Hunger Games. Hastily she averted her eyes.<br/>
</span>"I... - I didn't want to disturb you," she hesitantly began, but the boy laughed softly.<br/>
"Looks more like I disturbed you."<br/>
Fortunately, he couldn't see her blushing in the dark. What had she been thinking, walking alone down here?<br/>
"Oh, I just...", she gestured somewhat helpless towards the wide sea, "wanted to be alone a little."<br/>
<span>"Hmm," the boy </span><span>uttered</span><span> and settled unexpectedly next to her in the surf.<br/>
</span>"Me as well. They never leave you alone up there."<br/>
For a moment there was silence, in which the girl wondered whether she should show that she knew who he was, or whether she should just keep quiet. But before she had made a decision, he spoke on:<br/>
"Besides, it was a good idea to get rid of that shitty thing, that crown."<br/>
Because of the obvious frustration in his voice she looked at him timidly from the side, but it was hard to interpret the feelings on the boy's face. She nodded as if she agreed with him.<br/>
<span>"Let the fish eat </span><span>it</span><span>," he added </span><span>quietly</span><span>. His voice trembled. She did not dare look at him, for she was sure he was crying.<br/>
</span>One of the stones she had let jump before lay at her feet and she picked it up. Pleasantly smooth it lay in her hand. Nervously she turned it in her hands, unsure if she should say something or not. Certainly she did not want to ask him about his games. But he probably didn't want her pity either. She threw the stone away from her in a gloomy mood. He sailed lightly over the waves before he sank again, splashing. Silently, the boy next to her also lifted a stone, but his did not jump as far as hers. Smiling, she handed him another stone.<br/>
"Try again."<br/>
<span>In </span><span>incertitude</span><span>, he looked at her, but then he smiled back at her.</span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Odds against me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The day of the harvest arrives in district four - the last one for Annie Cresta. A safe bet, or so she and her loved ones assume... but today the odds are not in her favour.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello lovely readers!<br/>Sorry for the wait - I had planned to put this chapter out way earlier, but I had to work overtime so I couldn't progress with the translation. Anyways, here is the first real chapter! I hope you enjoy reading this.<br/>I want to take the opportunity to thank those that have left Kudos and bookmarked this story! This means a lot to me.<br/>Until the next chaper!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    <b>Chapter One – </b>
  </span>
  <span>
    <b>Odds against me</b>
  </span>
</p><p>***</p><p><span>The taste of salt is in the air on this day, </span><span>the</span> <span>day of the </span><span>harvest. An unusual heat </span><span>scorches the district</span><span> and warms the roofs of </span><span>the </span><span>houses. </span><span>T</span><span>he roofs </span><span>of district four</span> <span>shine red</span><span> in front of me, like a second sea </span><span>out </span><span>of house</span><span>s</span><span> spreading before me. In an all too gentle breeze the clotheslines flutter in the air and the colourful clothes paint funny pictures in the air. This day could certainly be a wonderful one - if it wasn't for the harvest. But this is a dark thought that I do not give in to. I even dare to </span><span>feel safe enough</span><span> that I will survive this day and the harvest that comes with it. David, my </span><span>boy</span><span>friend, has already done it and so will I. It is only this one harvest that separates me from 'freedom'. </span><span>What are the odds of getting reaped? I don’t have any tesserae, so my name is only in the bowl seven times. This thought definitely calms me. </span></p><p><span>So I am sitting quite relaxed on an old stake whose wood is rott</span><span>ing</span><span> from all the water that once sloshed against it. </span><span>These days</span><span>, however, no water flows here any more, but a salt marsh stretches </span><span>out over</span><span> several </span><span>feet</span><span>. Herbs and small, white flowers grow here, a </span><span>plant distinctive to</span><span> our district. I am skilful in handling these flowers and herbs, with </span><span>only a </span><span>few movements of my fingers I wind a loop and pull t</span><span>ight</span><span>, another link in the wreath of flowers I am weaving finished. Others wind the ropes, I do the same with the flowers. I have never been someone who was particularly fond of the arts of </span><span>tying knots</span><span>, </span><span>with ropes at least</span><span>. </span><span>I do what I must when helping my father on his boat after school t</span><span>h</span><span>ough.</span> <span>But others do more than simply mending fisher nets </span><span>and such, which I take not much interest in.</span> <span>All the</span><span>se</span><span> things that many other </span><span>teenagers</span><span> of my age practice are not my thing. There is a training </span><span>academy</span><span> in district four where some of </span><span>them</span><span> not only learn the art of knotting, but are also trained in spear throwing, arrow shooting and fencing. In short, they learn the craft of weaponry for the arena, because their big goal is to enter the Hunger Games to gain fame and glory </span><span>as volunteers</span><span>. With wreaths of flowers I will probably never bring it to </span><span>honour</span><span>, fame or money, but it seems </span><span>far </span><span>safer than putting my life on the line. </span><span>I’m quite content with being a fisherwoman, after all I’ve learnt from one of the best – my father.</span></p><p><span>And a</span><span>fter all, it's been </span><span>settled for quite some </span><span>time </span><span>that I’ll</span><span> celebrate my wedding after this harvest. It would not be wise to risk </span><span>this</span><span>. I </span><span>c</span><span>ould never leave David alone, never let him suffer my loss. It is enough to see the parents who have lost their children in the games </span><span>every year.</span><span> I have no illusions about these games, I know they are hard, bloody and cruel. But </span><span>right </span><span>now I </span><span>push</span><span> this unfavourable thought aside, because David is coming towards me. He is wearing his best trousers together with a </span><span>new </span><span>snow-white shirt. </span><span>Even f</span><span>rom far away I can make out his bright smile and it </span><span>gets </span><span>to</span> <span>me too. Happily I let my hands with the </span><span>unfinished</span><span> wreath </span><span>sink</span><span>. </span></p><p>Finally he puts his arms around me and whispers happily:</p><p>"Good morning, my sunshine."</p><p>I giggle melodically and answer:</p><p>"You old flatterer."</p><p>
  <span>After a tender kiss on the cheek he grabs my hands and for a moment we look each other firmly in the eyes. His are, typical for district four, of a warm blue with some small sprinkles in an indefinable colour. Although I already know his eyes </span>
  <span>so well</span>
  <span>, </span>
  <span>having </span>
  <span>looked into them so often </span>
  <span>since our childhood days</span>
  <span>, </span>
  <span>they </span>
  <span>always calm me down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls me </span>
  <span>up</span>
  <span> and half of </span>
  <span>my </span>
  <span>wreath slides to the ground, but none of us really registers this. Instead, he approvingly inspects my new red dress, which </span>
  <span>flows</span>
  <span> pleasantly around my legs in the summer breeze. It is not a very strong red, but rather one that is easy on the eyes and yet looks fresh, </span>
  <span>like ripened strawberry's.</span>
  <span> The choice is already a bit brave for me, </span>
  <span>as I’m usually a fan of lighter colours</span>
  <span>, but my little brother convinced me with his extremely cute praise to actually choose this bra</span>
  <span>ve </span>
  <span>colour for my very last harvest. Moreover, it is the colour of love - not a bad choice. Especially since the cut is still plain and rather girlish. </span>
  <span>Definitely not too daring.</span>
</p><p>David doesn't say anything, but instead grabs my hand a little firmer.</p><p>"Can we go?", I ask him smiling.</p><p>He smiles happily, as if we are not going to the harvest, but to a festival.</p><p>"Of course!"</p><p><span>All </span><span>thoughts </span><span>regarding the harvest pushed</span><span> aside, we are </span><span>trying to</span><span> look forward to the future </span><span>after today</span><span>. Slowly and without hurry we walk across the meadow back to the city, passing under the clotheslines. The only thing that makes you realize that today is harvest day is the fact that there are hardly any people on the streets </span><span>going about</span><span> their business, even the fishing boats are </span><span>all</span> <span>docked</span><span> in the </span><span>harbor</span><span> today. Instead behind the windows of the houses, one recognizes the shadows of those who are still in the process of getting dressed. </span><span>T</span><span>he depressing atmosphere becomes clearer </span><span>inside the city</span><span>, </span><span>since </span><span>not for everyone this will be a happy day today. Even we fall silent on the way. </span></p><p>
  <span>District four itself is really beautiful. The closer you get to the sea, the smaller the huts become. They are all a bit crooked and have windows </span>
  <span>through which the wind blows</span>
  <span>, but with their small gardens where mainly salt plants grow and the rickety shutters, the red roofs and the colourful painted doors they have their own charm. I could never exchange this district for another, as this is clearly my home. </span>
  <span>I also</span>
  <span> live in a small house towards the sea, as my family does not have </span>
  <span>too </span>
  <span>much money. We are </span>
  <span>neither</span>
  <span> poor, </span>
  <span>nor</span>
  <span> rich, but it was just enough for a new dress </span>
  <span>on the reaping day</span>
  <span>. We also share the house with David's family, to be more precise we live in something like a </span>
  <span>terraced house</span>
  <span>. In one half of the house his family lives, in the other half live </span>
  <span>only</span>
  <span> my father, brother </span>
  <span>and me</span>
  <span>, because my mother has already passed away.</span>
</p><p>But now we slowly wander through the more prosperous parts of the district, with the houses that are no longer crooked from the wind and have tight closing windows. In many houses there are several families living even here, because the family is very important in our district. So it happens that we live together in a very small area, because the district is not one of the biggest of Panem, although we are quite rich in inhabitants.</p><p>
  <span>All these inhabitants are just arriving at the town hall square, which comes into sight when we turn the last corner. More and more people appear around us and from one moment to the next it gets busy around us. From all corners of the great Town Hall, the only building that stands out from the city with its grey façade, hang the banners of the Capitol whose imprint is a stylised eagle and in front of it, as every year, there is a brown wooden stage decorated with a veritable sea of salt marsh clover. Blue silk stripes keep the blossoms upright and distract from how dilapidated the stage actually is. The surrounding houses, which are home to many shops, are also decorated. Colourful chains with pennants showing different motives are hanging between the houses and across the square. I recognize fish and golden tridents, symbols for our district. All these decorations are from our district itself and are meant to show our prosperity all over Panem. Of the twelve districts, ours is one of the </span>
  <span>most prosperous</span>
  <span>, we do not have too many reasons to complain. Seafood is very much in demand in the Capitol and not least because of our glorious winners of the many Hunger Games, which </span>
  <span>will now</span>
  <span> reach the </span>
  <span>70</span>
  <span>th edition, we have achieved a good standing. The only unpolluted access to the sea is definitely an advantage. </span>
  <span>O</span>
  <span>f course not everything is so rosy...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The square is divided into sections with wooden pegs and blue cloth tied between them, because the Capitol requires us to line up separately by gender </span>
  <span>and age</span>
  <span>. Many families are already standing in front of it and say goodbye to each other with many hugs and words. I, too, ha</span>
  <span>ve</span>
  <span> already said goodbye to my father and brother as a matter of course, for they had left earlier and </span>
  <span>are </span>
  <span>already among the crowd, for I had wanted to wait for David. </span>
  <span>They </span>
  <span>want to leave this moment to us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a few moments we watch the hustle and bustle of the families </span>
  <span>in silence</span>
  <span>, small children pressing themselves to the skirts of their mothers, older ones who are rather annoyed by it and mothers who are wringing their hands out of concern. Because no matter how </span>
  <span>good our life may appear</span>
  <span>, the shadow of the harvest will always be over us, whether it is farther away or </span>
  <span>coming </span>
  <span>clos</span>
  <span>e</span>
  <span>. We </span>
  <span>may </span>
  <span>have a training </span>
  <span>academy and the</span>
  <span> so-called careers, who volunteer and thus save </span>
  <span>the others from being reaped</span>
  <span>, but they are no </span>
  <span>longer</span>
  <span> rich in numbers. </span>
  <span>Surely, the last years have been good for us and most are faring better than ever with enough food and a roof to sleep under. Fewer people are looking to volunteer these times and for the last </span>
  <span>four</span>
  <span> years no one has won, since the 65</span>
  <sup>
    <span>th</span>
  </sup>
  <span> games. </span>
  <span>This year, for example, there are no eighteen-year-old left, only young people up to sixteen, but most of the time you only </span>
  <span>volunteer</span>
  <span> when you are eighteen and have </span>
  <span>received </span>
  <span>the best training. </span>
  <span>Still </span>
  <span>I am sure that one of the sixteen-year-old would also </span>
  <span>risk it</span>
  <span> if a twelve-year-old were to be drawn, because that would be an additional honour. </span>
  <span>Thus</span>
  <span> I </span>
  <span>still can’t worry to much</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>Once again David pulls me into his arms, we hug for a moment, share a shy kiss and then he says quietly:</p><p>
  <span>"May </span>
  <span>the odds be in our favour</span>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>Somewhat depressed by his change of mood and the general atmosphere, I respond quietly:</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, may the </span>
  <span>odds be in our favour</span>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>Slowly, David moves to the ranks of the grown men who are already too old for the Hunger Games. We have known each other since our early childhood and for our parents it was never out of question that we would marry one day, as we have always been one heart and soul. Besides it is the most favourable for both our families. A marriage that brings luck and money in equal measure - I can't imagine anything better. We simply know everything about each other and the love has created itself at some point. It is easier this way. After this years Hunger Games we will be married ... if I am still alive. Now that David is gone, some of those uncomfortable thoughts quickly come back to me, painting dark sceneries in my mind.</p><p><span>There are so many </span><span>children</span><span> here with me, why should it be me? </span><span>I fight the thoughts down. </span><span>I have survived so many harvests in my life, it would be an incredible whim of fate if it were to happen to me today. I know, the security I am feeling right now is deceptive. Even today, my name can still be the </span><span>one d</span><span>rawn. I must not think about it. What it would mean for David, my father, my brother, all of them... It is almost as if my air is running out and I </span><span>will</span><span> myself in motion to join the other girls of my age. All the other eighteen-year-old stand around me, whisper excitedly and some of them wave to each other tense. All at once I feel the tension increase, almost tangible in the air. I know it's getting serious now. I don't know most of the girls </span><span>directly </span><span>around me, and if I do, then only from school, there are no friends of mine among them. A few of the girls in my class greet me briefly and I greet them, but then it becomes silent. On the other side of the square I see the Capitol camera teams set up their last cameras and check the big screens. Every second of this harvest will be recorded for eternity. Now, somewhat nervous and insecure, I reach for my big hair clip, which holds back part of my hair. Although it is still in place, I </span><span>tug</span><span> it a little </span><span>tighter</span><span> and str</span><span>ike</span><span> over its smooth surface. It is a scallop, an unusually large one even. It is one of the few souvenirs left </span><span>that </span><span>once </span><span>belonged to my </span><span>mother, she </span><span>had</span> <span>glued </span><span>the clasp in the </span><span>shell</span><span> and </span><span>later </span><span>g</span><span>iven</span><span> it to me. My last glance goes to David's brown mop of hair, whose gaze is already directed towards the stage.</span></p><p>It will be alright.</p><p>Now I also turn to the stage, which is still completely empty, but not a word can be heard, it is so quiet that you can hear the whistling of the wind in the alleys. On the screens the rotating emblem of the Capitol flickers. I count backwards silently.</p><p>Three, two, one... zero.</p><p>
  <span>With a bang the heavy door of the town hall opens and the team from district four appears, led by Cecilia Sae. Cecilia Sae, </span>
  <span>or short</span>
  <span> Cece, is the caretaker of our district, who was provided to us by the Capitol. She is responsible for taking care of the tributes, managing the harvest and she is also coordinating some other things, although I have no idea what </span>
  <span>exactly it is </span>
  <span>she does. Behind her follow, like lambs, the mayor and his wife, as well as the winners of our district, who all fade </span>
  <span>behind</span>
  <span> Cece's </span>
  <span>glamorous </span>
  <span>performance. She is always an imposing figure. Her current ensemble consists of an orange blazer with a matching balloon skirt, which, to make matters worse, shines in the sun. Twenty centimetre high heels lift her to dizzying heights and as always it seems to me like a miracle that she can even walk. </span>
  <span>The icing on the cake are</span>
  <span> Cece's recent deformations: Two golden flower tendrils wreathe under her skin from the corners of both eyes down to the corner of her mouth. It is no longer just a simple tattoo, no, the flowers are plastic and her skin stretches over them. In addition she wears bright pink lipstick and </span>
  <span>eye</span>
  <span>shadow, which probably would have made me </span>
  <span>scream</span>
  <span> as a little child. Now, however, it does not elicit more than a tired grin from me, because these capers of the Capitol population only provide for tired mockery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. and Mrs. Merrywith, on the other hand, who are corpse-pale and inconspicuous, almost sneak onto the stage, and their plain linen clothing is also very reserved. Anyway, our mayor looks as if he wants to leave the stage. Although he holds every one of his speeches with fervor, it is known that he is worried about the live broadcast in the Capitol, because he is said to be afraid of getting muddled up. </span>
  <span>Behind him are the</span>
  <span> five winners who are left. Of course, these are not all of our district's victors, but they are all that remain to this day. </span>
  <span>Some</span>
  <span> have died, and malicious tongues claim that </span>
  <span>it</span>
  <span> were</span>
  <span>n’t</span>
  <span> accidents...</span>
</p><p><span>In contrast to Cece, they are not beaming with joy, they just wave compulsively in the direction of the cameras and try to present themselves cheerfully. </span><span>Since </span><span>we haven't had a winner for five years, they are all older, the youngest is twenty-one. That makes eight tributes who died in the arena in the past years - a sad number. The burden that </span><span>lies</span><span> on them must be heavy, because with every year without a win we continue to sink in the favour of the Capitol, even if our last great winner was Finnick Odair, who </span><span>is</span><span> in the middle of our winners and can still </span><span>smile the brightest of them all</span><span>. He is basically something like the most popular bachelor </span><span>in </span><span>Panem, because he constantly surrounds himself with the rich women of the Capitol and indulges in a licentious lifestyle. </span><span>For him it is</span><span> probably the easiest to smile and wave to </span><span>us</span><span>, as he has nothing to fear. Certainly he doesn't waste much thought on his tributes, for which he is supposed to be a mentor after all, but rather thinks of his bed bunnies. I can't stand him, because so many people are blinded by his appearance alone, but in reality this is nothing unique. Like many of </span><span>us</span><span> he has green-blue eyes, a few freckles and sun-bleached, bronze hair. I </span><span>mostly</span><span> know him from magazines and from film shots, but that is enough for me. The only thing that makes him special is that he's so well trained. He is trained beyond his limits, even now after his games. Against him, the other winners seem rather colourless, </span><span>apart from a muscular woman with slick black hair and a grim face.</span> <span>A memory of a slender boy tossing stones swims up in my mind, but that clearly isn’t the man on the stage. I shake </span><span>off </span><span>the memory. </span><span>They all take a seat on the stage to listen to the mayor's speech, which traditionally always comes first. </span></p><p>There is the old Mags, whose hunger games are so far behind that nobody remembers them, and Trexler and Floogs, who you only see together, as they are close friends. I don't remember their hunger games either. Last but not least there is the brooding woman rivalling Finnicks strength named Amber, the winner of the 61st Hunger Games. She was in the arena when she was 16, and single-handedly murdered half the Tributes. These are the first Hunger Games that I can consciously remember and I will never forget the pictures.</p><p>I am brought back into the here and now as the mayor clumsily stands up from his seat and wavers towards the microphone. You can see his prosperity from afar. He is an unpleasant person, very anxious to get along with the Capitol, to suck up to them. That is why he does not want to make any mistakes. He torments himself, as he does every year, by his melodiously phrased remarks about the dark days and the Capitol, but above all by how arrogant the unworthy districts were. Even Cece must suppress a yawn in these merciless exaggerations. I don't want to say that she is likeable, but she is, despite all her ridiculousness, more pleasant than many a guest of the Capitol.</p><p>"...and so every year we send two of our children to the Capitol as tributes. So that we will never forget the dark days," the mayor concludes his speech.</p><p>
  <span>The great moment has come, the tension returns, even though I had </span>
  <span>almost</span>
  <span> forgotten </span>
  <span>about</span>
  <span> it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cece rises and smoothes her pastel orange skirt, which shines irritatingly. Carefully she struts to the small </span>
  <span>ornamental </span>
  <span>table</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> on which the round bellied glasses full of </span>
  <span>folded up paper snips</span>
  <span> are standing, each of her steps seem to be exactly measured. She </span>
  <span>appears</span>
  <span> to be visibly delighted when she cries into the microphone: "Happy Hunger Games! And may </span>
  <span>the odds be ever in our favour</span>
  <span>!" </span>
</p><p>A shrill feedback chases after it and I grimace.</p><p>
  <span>This year she's going to the glass with the boys' names first. She stretches her hand with her artificial fingernails deep into the glass, performs a few </span>
  <span>exaggerated</span>
  <span> movements before she jumps like a crow on a lottery ticket and pulls it out from among the others. Triumphantly she holds it up in the air. Iron silence lies over us as she slides one of her claws under the seal and unfolds it slowly and with relish. It is during these minutes that each one is </span>
  <span>closest to oneself</span>
  <span> and prays for </span>
  <span>oneself.</span>
  <span> Now th</span>
  <span>at the</span>
  <span> note is completely unfolded, Cece reads the name once, her face brightens and she calls into the microphone with all her strength:</span>
</p><p>"Pon Amberson!"</p><p><span>I know Pon. He's a little boy from school, just 12 years old. Bravely he steps out of the crowd, still we all hold our breath, waiting for the </span><span>boasting</span><span> call </span><span>of</span><span> a volunteer. Not even his mother calls his name. With small steps the blond haired boy crosses the crowd, which respectfully divides in front of him, and finally even climbs up the grandstand. There is no movement on his face, not even when Cece grabs his hand with her claws, he just twitches for a moment, then he puts on the mask again. Still no volunteer has called and Cece's gaze wanders questioningly over the crowd for a moment. In the past five years there </span><span>have been</span><span> at least </span><span>some</span><span> volunteer</span><span>s, especially when younger children have been reaped</span><span>, </span><span>and</span> <span>Cece</span><span> doesn't seem </span><span>to like the</span> <span>lasting silence</span><span>. Even I am tense and confused, my fingernails digging deeply into the palm of my hand, although it is not even about me. </span></p><p>Cece finally scurries to the microphone and shouts, a little quieter than before:</p><p>"Volunteers?"</p><p>
  <span>Unanswered, her question fades away. No, there are none this year. Nobody wants to leave, we are well </span>
  <span>off</span>
  <span> and the past years have shown us </span>
  <span>a promise of what</span>
  <span> is possible. We don't have to worry, we'll rest on the laurels we still have. It sounds shrill and unhappy as Cece continues:</span>
</p><p>"Our male tribute to the 70th Annual Hunger Games is Pon Amberson!"</p><p>
  <span>We applaud for him from a distance and then Cece steps to the next glass. My stomach cramps up again and I realize I'm starting to sweat. Inside I pray that it will not be my name. </span>
  <span>Seven</span>
  <span> times my name is in this glass, </span>
  <span>which </span>
  <span>is not enough to be pulled by Cece of all people...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again Cece's fingers run through the notes, touching some of them but </span>
  <span>dropping</span>
  <span> again. Finally, she pulls one out, deep from the bottom of the glass. If I was so confident before, I'm </span>
  <span>shaking</span>
  <span> now. I feel as if I </span>
  <span>will</span>
  <span> throw up and my mouth becomes dry. </span>
</p><p>Slowly Cece unfolds the note, reads the name, walks to the microphone, clears her throat once, then it sounds shrill and unreal:</p><p>"Annie Cresta!"</p><p>I hear nothing but the rush of my own blood in my ears. My heart is beating fast. I can't understand... what name was said? Why doesn't anybody move? Is everyone staring at me?</p><p>The girl next to me gives me a nasty shock in the ribs. "Go on!" she hisses at me.</p><p>"Why?", I breathe, but she pushes me forward again.</p><p>
  <span>I almost stumble over my own feet, find a halt at the last second and step through the passage that opens up in front of me, as </span>
  <span>it</span>
  <span> did </span>
  <span>for</span>
  <span> Pon. As if nobody want</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> to touch me. With my head lowered, I walk to the stage that threateningly </span>
  <span>looms</span>
  <span> in front of me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don't know how </span>
  <span>I</span>
  <span> get up to Cece, but suddenly I stand there and listen to the silence when </span>
  <span>she</span>
  <span> ask</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> for volunteers. The whistling of the wind moves through the alleys </span>
  <span>between the</span>
  <span> houses. Suddenly Cece bangs her hands together, a harsh sound in the silence. It takes a while, but then the whole district </span>
  <span>falls</span>
  <span> in, </span>
  <span>clapping</span>
  <span>, while it feels like bile is rising up my throat. Shaky, but still somehow somewhat </span>
  <span>under</span>
  <span> control, I give Pon my hand on Cece's command, nod to him and raise my arm which feel</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> like </span>
  <span>it is </span>
  <span>no longer </span>
  <span>a </span>
  <span>part of me. Otherwise I cannot explain how I actually </span>
  <span>manage to</span>
  <span> wave to the crowd. </span>
</p><p>“Happy Hunger Games!", Cece calls her standard sentence.</p><p>
  <span>Two coarse hands grab me and push me towards the exit, but I don't have any thoughts of escape or anything like that, I'm much too shocked for that. All my security, contentment, has disappeared in one fell swoop. The area around me is blurred, indistinctly I see walls and peacekeepers, the mayor and the interior of the town hall, doors rattle, then I find myself in a large room. </span>
  <span>The coarse</span>
  <span> hands leave me and suddenly I am alone again. </span>
</p><p><span>All of a sudden my knees start to weaken and I sink down on the spot. I have been </span><span>reaped</span><span>! ME! Still confused I shake my head </span><span>in disbelief</span><span>. David! Only in this moment does the thought of him return. He saw me being </span><span>reaped</span> <span>as well as</span><span> my father, my brother...</span></p><p>
  <span>All these thoughts make me dizzy and I stagger over to the sofa in the middle of the room. Without asking any questions I sit down on one corner and stare at the oak door </span>
  <span>on the</span>
  <span> opposite </span>
  <span>wall</span>
  <span>. All I can feel is... emptiness. Neither fear nor </span>
  <span>anger</span>
  <span> are in me, but only this emptiness, </span>
  <span>and it feels as if</span>
  <span> I am looking at my fate from the outside. </span>
</p><p>A moment ago I was happy with David and now I am sitting here waiting to be made a tribute in the Hunger Games. Only now, as I am alone again, do I notice how much my hands have clenched the hem of my dress. I loosen them and lay them in my lap, unsure what to do now.</p><p>After a few minutes the door is opened and my father appears together with my little brother. The little one storms towards me and I pull him into my arms, completely perplexed. My father sits down next to me on the couch and silently puts his arms around both of us. I lean on his shoulder and then finally I feel the tears flowing, which I was not able to cry until just now.</p><p>"Annie... stop crying! Stop it," my little brother whispers. He's only seven. He doesn't even understand. I hold him close. I want to be strong. For him. I can barely hold back the tears. He pulls away from my embrace and gives me something in his little hands. Unlike me, he's blond and takes after my mother, a classic beauty. The only thing we have in common are our green eyes. I see his sad look from those green eyes and have to pull myself together to stop crying, but still some tears run down my cheeks. My eyes fall on the object in his hands. It is a fine gold chain with a locket.</p><p>"I know it is not fit for the arena. But... there is a picture in the locket of us all." My father lowers his gaze.</p><p>"We put it in just as a precaution so that we would have it with us..."</p><p>
  <span>Again I</span>
  <span> lean my head weakly against his shoulder as I </span>
  <span>tousle</span>
  <span> my brother's hair. </span>
</p><p>"No one would have expected it," I reply, under desperate sobs that earn me a frightened look from my brother.</p><p>"I hope it brings you luck."</p><p>My father's strong arms close around me and almost take my breath away. Close to my ear, he whispers:</p><p>"I love you, my little one. So much I want you to come back alive..."</p><p>I nod and try to repress the tears.</p><p>Sniffing I bend over to my brother, press him against me, press my face into his hair and suck his scent into me. I never want to forget him.</p><p>"Your big sister will always be there for you, I promise", I whisper helplessly, even if it is a lie, I cannot tell him anything else.</p><p>
  <span>I can barely take both of them in my arms once more, then our last time together is already over. As they leave, my father turns around one last time. "You can do it," he </span>
  <span>mouths</span>
  <span>. I just nod. I have to, </span>
  <span>somehow</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next, David's family appears, his mother, father and the two younger twins. The only one missing is </span>
  <span>David </span>
  <span>himself. They wish me all the best, offer me their condolences and promise to take good care of my father and brother. I let it pass over me, but </span>
  <span>in my mind I am</span>
  <span> long gone. Saying goodbye to my family has completely worn me out. They talk a lot, but nobody seems to care that I myself do not say much except 'thank you'. </span>
  <span>The absence of David speaks more than a thousand words. I do not know how to feel, but a part of me is happy that I do not have to deal with his feelings right now. I wouldn’t know what to do.</span>
</p><p>At the very end, David's mother puts a note in my hand. "He did not want to come because it is too painful. Your last goodbye was so nice, he doesn’t want to ruin it in both of your memories. But I'm supposed to give you this," she tells me. I unfold the note.</p><p>
  <em>I love you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>D.</em>
</p><p>That's all it says. For this he has made one of his typical, clumsy drawings. With difficulty I realize that it is supposed to represent the old boat shed where we used to play as children. A smile comes over my lips, painful as it is, because a splinter of the old memories, which now seem even more past, comes up in me.</p><p>When everyone has left, I fold the note and put it in the medallion. It is oval and has hardly any ornaments, except for a narrow vine. The small picture inside is already a few years old and shows me, my parents and my brother happy in front of our boat, the "Peppersheep".</p><p>I cry a few last tears, then I am picked up by the peacekeepers and led to the train that will take us to the Capitol.</p><p>I'm not turning back again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I am Annie Cresta. And I'll be fighting in the 70th Hunger Games.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Leaving</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey,<br/>I hope you still enjoy reading the story! I know that it might be slight shock that Annie is bethroted to someone else, but you will just have to wait a little bit and see what happens... after all a certain someone might not be who he appears to be at first ;) <br/>Anyways, here is the latest chapter, have fun!<br/>Cheers<br/>Coronet</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> Chapter Two – Leaving </b>
</p><p> </p><p>***<b><br/></b></p><p>We silently walk the short distance that brings us to the train. Peacekeepers line our path, standing guard on both sides of our way, holding back the crowd. This isn’t necessary however, as most of the citizens watch in silence, their eyes fixed on us, only silent witnesses of our abduction.</p><p>The sun has reached its zenith and is burning down mercilessly on us, like a spotlight that illuminates the scene, presenting us in a particularly merciless light, leaving no room for slips. I already regret my tears from earlier, since they now glitter treacherously in the sunlight, revealing my mental weakness to every spectator. As best as possible I try to avert my face, not to look at the citizens, so that they cannot look at me either. But the cameras, which are carried by cameramen in colourful shimmering clothes, record every second of our way and my tears surely won’t escape them. Just in this moment the recordings are probably shown in the Capitol, the trace of tears on my cheeks possibly dominating the screens. Not a good start for these involuntary hunger games.</p><p>After all, I am from a career district, thus I have no illusions what is important for the games. The appearance of a tribute is decisive for how many sponsors they can count on. Those who present themselves badly and do not manage to convince the people of the Capitol, will not be lucky in the arena. One could almost say that the spectators determine the games. Their money will only be given to the one who plays his role best. Although you can win without support, this happens very rarely, if ever. Most Tributes run out of food very quick, or they don't even manage to get hold of a weapon. If then there is no generous sponsor, the games of the strongest Tributes have already developed rather unpleasant.</p><p>As inconspicuously as possible I risk a look at my co-tribute. He too seems to have shed a few tears, but he does not try to hide them. Instead, he has raised his head defiantly, looking directly into the cameras confronting him, but he doesn't smile. He makes a noticeable effort to maintain a good posture, even as his shoulders are tight with tension and he barely manages not to hunch. He pushes out his chest, trying hard to appear stronger, I guess. But the fact that the cameramen have to get down on their knees to be on the same level with him reminds me that he is only twelve and therefore still a small child.</p><p>Now, however, the cameramen pause for a moment and turn to point their cameras at the imposing building that rises before us. Bright white it shines in the sun - the station. Glass doors with elegantly curved handles, a red carpet in the lobby and rich decorations on the facade clearly show that this building, just like the town hall, was built by the Capitol, because it was built in their architectural style, not the simple functionality of our construction workers. Fish ornaments covered with gold decorate the building and show a pomp that does not correspond to the actual standard in our district. But here the visitors of the Capitol arrive, everything below this level would be unthinkable. The freight station however, where the big containers are filled with ice and raw fish, built by ourselves, that one lacks any glamour. The stench of fish wafts through the draughty halls and everything is grey in colour.</p><p>I have never been to the passenger station myself, since there never was a reason for it. Those who do not have a prominent position, such as the mayor, are not allowed to travel to our capital, so we are not allowed to enter. The only train we are allowed to travel on is the freight train. Moreover, this pleasure is reserved only for those who have obtained a licence from the Capitol and even they are only allowed to travel at certain times and never get off the train. All they do is deliver the freight.</p><p>But since no one in my family has ever had such a licence, I know of no one who has ever travelled by train once in his life, or even seen the Capitol with his own eyes. We are a fishing family, we have our own boat, the Peppersheep, on which I always helped out after school. My work was mostly limited to finding the places where the fishing grounds were still rich and not already overfished. Thanks to my small talent in biology, I learned over time where most fish can be found and where the water is clearest. I can also handle the spear or fishing nets, but as I have rarely done so, this is not one of my greatest strengths. To be fair it’s more of a weakness, because as a weapon I can't possibly use these two elementary items at all. But I should be able to do exactly that now.</p><p>Next to the wide open doors of the station are two screens, similar to the ones that were set up at the harvest. They show the whole district the last meters of our path in bigger-than-life size. For the first time I see what I look like on the outside and I am a little shocked. My eyes are even redder than I thought, my shoulders are sagging and all in all I give a very depressed impression, which I don't seem to try to hide. I have just had to say goodbye to my family, as well as to my happy future. I have not yet really understood that this place will be the last thing I will see of my homeland. Dragged along by the peacekeepers, I have lost any sense of time or my surroundings. All the faces that crowd behind the peacekeepers' ranks look the same, even if David were among them, I would not be able to recognize him.</p><p>I am already being pushed again, gently, probably because of the cameras, but firmly. There's no time to stop and have even maudlin farewell ceremonies. They want us in the Capitol as soon as possible. With my teeth gritted, I turn my gaze to Cece's waving wig monster and continue on my way.</p><p>Perhaps, I think, I could later declare this scene as a small moment of weakness in my interview, saying that I had to leave my fiancé so that some might feel pity for me. Because in my felt powerlessness I just can't manage to radiate a little more dignity than that of a crying girl. But I will need sponsors...</p><p>I almost stumble on the steps up to the station because of my confusedly dancing thoughts. Dazed, I catch myself and hastily follow Cece and Pon, my gaze as if under blinkers directly on the target. I blank out the people to my sides, the gawping crowd, try to forget them, but I am reminded again and again that somewhere among them is my family, who have to watch my departure. With each of these thoughts my heart sinks deeper, as do my shoulders, and desperately I try to push my chest out to express pride and strength. But I can't pretend what I don't feel.</p><p>As we enter the hall of the station and the spectators have to stay outside, my eyes sinks to the ground and I look at my own feet, which carry me with unsteady steps closer to the train already waiting at the track. A lump forms in my throat as I look timidly over my shoulder and see the glass doors closing behind us. No, there is no pride in me. There is sadness and other feelings that I cannot name, not even fully grasp. I go to the Hunger Games, I, Annie Cresta. Now, at this moment.</p><p>We step out of the main hall onto the platform where the train is already waiting. He is a huge, red-and-black monster, offering an imposing sight. Its shape is reminiscent of the fish that swim in the small lagoons that have formed at the edge of some salt marshs. They are also streamlined, like this train, whose windows are mirrored so that you cannot see in from the outside. Not that we would pass inhabited areas, we drive directly into the Capitol without any detours through the other districts.</p><p>A gentle push in my back from the peacekeepers behind me reminds me to move forward. They don't dare to be too harsh in front of all the cameras. But I know the dark side from the times when all cameras are off. Punishment is happening here too. Just because we are one of the Capitol's favourites doesn't mean we have a lot of leeway. The peacekeepers surround us all the time, twenty-four hours a day, every week, every month. I'll never forget the day my father took my brother fishing. Normally, every fisherman must have trips to the sea certified outside of regular working hours, otherwise going wild fishing is considered resource theft. They did not have that permit, because that too costs money. But my father, who only wanted to teach my brother how to use the spear for the first time, believed that no one would discover them in the small, secluded bay. But they were caught and my father was taken to the prison. It took three days until he was let go and returned to us at the end of his strength. We are definitely not being treated any better.</p><p>In front of me the door of the train opens and reveals the dark entrance. First Cece enters the train, then Pon and finally I follow them over the metal steps. The cameras and peacekeepers remain outside, recording us one last time as we turn around on the threshold, both of us silently waving, neither of us having last words. I wouldn't know what to say anyway, if I could, so silence is probably better. The steps are retracted, a warning beep sounds, we are asked to step back from the door. With a hiss it slides shut, leaving us in semi-darkness. Not even two seconds later the lights flicker on.</p><p>I exhale and the last bit of my posture leaves me for good, my chest collapses and I wrap my arms around myself, looking for support. The thought of a warm bed, preferably mine of course, seems incredibly tempting. But now everything is different, because I will never get out of here. From now on it is my fate to be a tribute.</p><p>Smiling, Cece stands under the bright light of the lamp, looking at us for a moment before she claps her hands enthusiastically, which makes me as well as Pon startle and exclaims:</p><p>"Welcome aboard the train to the Capitol, my dears!"</p><p>She looks at Pon, then at me, beaming with joy before she continues:</p><p>"In half an hour, we'll be having an excellent dinner right here," she says, pointing to a sliding door behind her, "in our dining car. Put on some fine clothes, freshen up, whatever you like. Your compartments are down the hall, left for Annie, right for Pon!"</p><p>She turns around and prepares to go to another car, when she turns again and says, "We've already picked out a few things for you." She remains silent for a moment. Then she adds: "Use the time for yourselves. You won't be alone much longer."</p><p>Also Cece seems to have faded away, her smile is not as exuberant as it was on stage and her exaggerated gestures are gone as well. She is nothing more than a woman in really high heels. Silently I stand in the corridor for a moment , watching her stagger away before I realize how cold it is here. Outside, the sun is shining, but inside the wagon, which is completely furnished in dark colours, the temperature is lower, which gives me goose bumps. At this moment a jerk runs through the train and I can see through the window that we are starting to move slowly. First at a snail's pace the small platform passes in front of my eyes, then we get faster and faster, the peacekeepers become more and more blurred, until we finally run out of the station and pass between the last houses. There are no more points in the landscape that one could look at longer, everything passes us faster and faster. We leave district four.</p><p>When I make my way to my compartment Pon is already gone, I didn’t even notice he left. The compartment can be found quickly, a freshly mounted brass sign next to the door announces that this is 'Annie's compartment'. It apparently did not take long to replace the old sign of my predecessor with a new one. The door also slides open in front of me and I find myself in what is probably the most luxurious room I have ever seen. Soft carpet covers the floor, the walls are panelled with wood and an electronic chandelier hangs from the stuccoed ceiling. In the middle of the room is the bed, a real monster. It stands on heavy oak feet, with two soft eiderdowns and countless pillows. At home I have enjoyed the luxury of my own bed, but this one is more than twice as big. When I throw myself on it in high spirits, it has a soft bounce. It feels as if I am floating, the mattress is so soft and cuddly.</p><p>For a moment I lie on the bed, but when I close my eyes, my thoughts start to circle around my family, around David. Again and again I see the last moment in the room in the town hall before my inner eye, the farewell in tears. They are gone, not here, but it still seems so unrealistic to me, after all we have only just seen each other. My thoughts are above all with my family, because, strangely enough, I worry less about David. I know he'll be all right. If I... should not return, he can still meet a woman, start a family. He's a lovely man, I'm sure he will. Dark thoughts threaten to overwhelm me, because until now I have not even thought about the possible outcome of the games. Tears threaten to rise again within me, so I get up to explore the room further.</p><p>Apart from the bed there is a secretary, also made of oak wood, on which a pile of cream-coloured papers and a pen lie, a large chest of drawers, and a bedside table with a flower vase on it. There is also a large mirror hanging on the wall next to the bed. On a hook next to it is a hanger, with neatly folded clothes. These are probably the "fine" things Cece mentioned for dinner. However, she didn't mention with a word that we are not allowed to choose anything else, so I randomly open one of the drawers of the dresser. The tops inside are all made of the finest fabrics, sorted by colour. It is noticeable that the choice of colour is limited to greenish and bluish clothes - the standard colours associated with our district, because of the sea. In the drawer below are the matching skirts and trousers, which are almost all wide and loose. I'm looking for warmer clothes, but everything is summery. So for better or worse I will have to endure the coolness. Maybe it will get warmer on this train.</p><p>With some contortions I manage to reach the zipper of my dress and pull it open. Then I let the dress sink down to my feet. Interested, I rummage through the various pieces of clothing, pull out complicated wrap blouses and long shirts, until I finally decide on a simple, checkered blouse made of iridescent blue fabric and plain white trousers. The clothes fit like a glove, as if they knew I was going to be the tribute. It's a bit spooky, as is the quickly attached name tag. I wonder if they tailor these clothes every year for all imaginable sizes and then quickly get the right clothes to go with the tributes? How do they even know what fits? I don't even dare to think about it any further. Instead, I turn to the shoes in the bottom shelf of the chest of drawers, which are waiting for me there, row after row. I spend the rest of the time until dinner trying on the shoes one by one. Most of them, however, have heels and feel completely wrong on my feet. At home I only have flat shoes, heels are reserved for the inhabitants of the Capitol – and seemingly tributes.</p><p>In and of itself I like fashion Not the kind that is popular in the Capitol. Simple, beautiful things, that's what I like. Fashion, as it was once worn, which I only know from my school books. The fashion circus of the Capitol, on the other hand, seems completely crazy and aloof to me, I would never have my entire skin dyed, or anything like that. With the little money I have left each month, I have always tried to dress us all beautifully and comfortable as a family. I often spent my free time making accessories myself. Many of the girls envied me when I wore shell necklaces or hair clips, but I didn't find any friends through my craft either. What didn’t bother me, I liked to be at the bay for myself in search of shells. Even if it seems superficial, the activity of looking for a shoe keeps me from constantly circling my thought around my family.</p><p>Finally it is already time for dinner, as a gentle gong announces. Equipped with soft slippers, I return to the dining car, but there is no one in the car except Cece, who is now wearing a new, less spectacular and more comfortable costume than before, and Finnick Odair, who is still wearing the same clothes. Their looks cling to me unpleasantly as I mumble a quiet 'Good evening' and then cross the wagon. I sit down next to Cece, as far away as possible from the former winner, palms under my thighs and shoulders up. I don't like the unpleasant silence and the absence of a greeting, I feel like I'm on display. But then Cece clears her throat with a look at my outfit and says thinly:</p><p>"You look nice."</p><p>From the corner where Odair sits, a laugh rings out, loud and inappropriate.</p><p>"Wrong," says Finnick Odair brazenly, "Beautiful, Cece."</p><p>My cheeks blush, even though his compliment, if you so will, seems clumsy and imprudent. I continue to stare silently at the tabletop, in the quiet hope of escaping this conversation. My hair now hides my face from Finnick as it comes loose from my shell clip. A giggle from Cece gets through to me and I hear her say</p><p>"Finnick, you old flatterer!"</p><p>Through my veil of hair, I peep over to him, careful not to get noticed. I really don't need his attention right now. Seemingly bored, he plays with the sugar cubes in a little silver bowl on the table. Just as he has shoved one into his mouth, Mags, Trexler and Floogs appear with Pon in tow. Thank God, I think, as the unpleasant silence is finally broken by someone else. Even Cece seems happy not to be alone with us two any more.</p><p>"Where's Amber?" she asks, now full of energy.</p><p>"It's okay, she wants to stay in her compartment," mumbles Trexler, who is always mumbling, as I already know from occasional TV recordings.</p><p>This is the first time, however, that I hear the giant man speak in reality, and it immediately seems to me that he doesn't like to do so anyway. The others remain silent and fill the remaining seats. Mags leads Pon, who is now wearing a metallic blue vest and a stiff white shirt and matching trousers, to his seat and lets himself sink down onto a chair next to him. She seems to me as the only one of the mentors still normal and friendly, without major problems or neuroses. Amber, she is probably the lone fighter of the team, Trexler the rejecting, Finnick the eternally good-humoured and Floogs ... well, I can't judge him yet.</p><p>As dinner is served, my thoughts turn to the oddities of my mentoring team. Silent servants suddenly approach from the background and carry huge plates of steaming food in front of them. A large roast is served, next to spiced potatoes, fantastic sauces and some smaller delicacies. Candles on the table are lit while everyone reaches for their cutlery. Everybody at the table seems to be hungry and I too realize now how much I am hungry after all, a feeling I probably had suppressed a long time.</p><p>And so it happens that for a moment there is no other sound than that of us eating. For the first time in my life I get to eat something as fantastic as wild animal meat. It literally melts in your mouth! Several times I take second-helpings, which is not my usual way. The fish we eat at home is of course delicious, but it doesn't compete with this delicious ragout or roast. Even the winners, who surely enjoy such a delicious meal from time to time, really dig in.</p><p>Finally, Cece breaks the silence again and tries hard to get a conversation going, even though nobody really seems to want to talk. Everyone pretends to be busy with their food while Cece obsessively makes remarks about the 'spectacular harvest', the 'heartbreaking farewell' or the 'fabulous clothes'. In fact, she considers everything with one carefully chosen adjective. But the answers to her questions are sparse, even Odair, who is usually always in the limelight, holds back.</p><p>"That looks like your hair, Cece."</p><p>We have reached the third course when Pon drops this little remark, harmless and smiling sweetly. In front of us is a strangely grown vegetable, which actually bears an undeniable resemblance to the wild curls on Cece's head. Convulsively I try not to laugh, but it cannot be held back. All of us from District 4 have to laugh, even the mentors, who were poking at their food with gloomy faces until just now. The only one who finds this less amusing is of course Cece, but she doesn't let on anything and smiles at us narrowly, only Pon gets a bright smile from her, apparently she can't resent his remark. Which is not surprising, the boy smiles innocently and gets a bit red around his nose, apparently realizing how he embarrassed Cece with this remark.</p><p>After that the ice is broken for the time being, slowly us and the mentors get more into the conversation, to Cece's obvious joy. We talk about trivial things from our district, like the redevelopment of the city center, or the dress of the mayor's wife at this harvest, but nobody dares to mention the Hunger Games, or the events of the coming days. It is as if none of this exists, as if we were old friends sitting together over dinner. At some point, Amber joins us and lets herself be infected by the mood, which I honestly wouldn't have thought the muscular woman would be able to do, as she always seems rather grumpy during TV shots. But she smiles at Floogs and Trexler, even tells some amusing anecdotes, about which they laugh together.</p><p>Eventually everyone is watching Pon trying to put a bundle of Cece’s-curls-vegetables with a fork into a glass over the entire length of the table, when I lean back, replete and somewhat satisfied. It has already become late, but at least we do forget the hunger games for this one moment. Pon seems to be a born entertainer, since despite the rather dull occasion, he plays merrily with the vegetables, incidentally a behaviour that would never be tolerated at home, and manages to make everyone enjoy it, absurd as it may sound. Within a very short time he has even been able to win over the otherwise rather mute Trexler and Amber. I watch the events silently, without participating in his game. Pon will certainly have good sponsors in the arena if he continues to present himself in this way and his initial appearance today will certainly be quickly forgotten, as will the tears. He probably just needs time to warm up to the situation, the rest will likely be a matter of time.</p><p>Briefly I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I shouldn't think so much about the arena, as these bad thoughts seep into the cheerful atmosphere like poison. After a moment I notice Finnick Odair's gaze resting on me. I look back at him, but he just keeps watching me silently instead of averting his gaze when he is caught. Finally I turn my head away, but I know that he is still watching me, which gives me an unpleasant feeling. Why does his gaze on me feels so penetrating? Sure, it is never nice to be watched like that, but the intensity with which he looks at me, as if I were a creature he has never seen before... it irks me. Could it be that he remembers? I question myself. But surely he won’t. It was in the dark of the night when we once met and we were both much younger. Not to mention that I never introduced myself to him that night when he was crowned victor.</p><p>Once more I'm grateful for Cece when she interrupts the meal quietly but surely with the words 'Unfortunately we now have to come to an end to watch the summary of all the harvests'. I have to agree with the 'unfortunately', because the thought of seeing for the first time the faces of the twenty-two other tributes I'll meet in the Capitol doesn't make me feel very euphoric. The thought that these hunger games are a real threat punches me in the guts again and unhappily I follow Cece into the adjacent carriage, in which an oversized television set is located opposite a comfortable seating area. The Capitol's hymn is on in a soft hum and the screen shows the coat of arms with the eagle rotating around its own axis. We are asked to take a seat as one of the servants, who again appears out of nowhere, starts the recording by remote control. All together we are sitting in front of the TV, the mentors in broad wicker chairs, Cece, Pon and I on a small sofa, which is quite soft and comfortable, but I don’t seem able to relax and I perch on the front edge, hands folded in my lap.</p><p>The recording starts with a short speech by the usual presenter duo, Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith, who promise a lot of suspense and drama, before the crest of District One, a simple gem, emerges on screen. A cut to the stage, where the attendant, dressed in a glittering robe, appears to loud cheers and reaches into the first glass ball with a beaming face. There is tension in the audience, but there is no sign of fear on their faces, but eager hope. The one who is reaped gets the chance to become a shining winner. Unless, of course, he doesn't wants to. Which is almost never the case in District one. Two names are called, the boy willingly declaring that he will not swap places with anyone, while the girl, just thirteen, steps aside for a volunteer who is already eighteen, tall and seems wildly determined to make these games her own. Once again, cheers flare up as the two of them grimly reach out their hands to each other, then a cut back to Caesar and Claudius, who have a trivial chat about the volunteers and their courage.</p><p>Disheartened, I knead my hands and think of meeting these two in the arena one day. I cannot remember their names, but the violence under the surface sticks to my mind. They have clearly been training for this moment.</p><p>We see a similar scene in district two, where a boy screams out that he is volunteering before a name has even been reaped. For a moment there is an argument about the protocol that has to be followed, but in the end the attendant joyously brings him onto the stage. The girl also leaves voluntarily after her name has been reaped and this harvest is over as well.</p><p>Now it is the turn for District Three, the first district that is clearly not a career district. Lots of grey, frightened faces look up to the stage and the rather tormented appearing attendant who draws the two unhappy tributes. As expected, there are no volunteers here. It is the first time I see the desolation in this district, since normally we are only shown the pictures of the tributes, but not the scenery of the harvest itself, this perspective is usually reserved for the Capitol.</p><p>While the two commentators have been holding back in the previous districts, admiring only the imposing appearance of the Tributes and their courage, they now get lively. Both Tributes from Three are slim and you can see that their strength won’t be combat. No wonder, as Three is the technical district, most work is done with the brain instead of muscles, which is a clear disadvantage when it comes to the Hunger Games. They are also younger, which is risky as well.</p><p>Now it’s the turn of my district – district four. Up until now I wasn’t aware how afraid I was of this moment. When the coat of arms with the anchor and the six fishes is shown, I feel the nervousness rising within me. I squeeze my hands tightly while we hear Caesar wondering if the most beautiful district of Panem is going to celebrate another great victory this year? They are clearly longing for volunteers, volunteers like Finnick or Amber were, with great courage and even greater strength. Not to mention a dash of good looks to go with it. I look over to my co-tribute.</p><p>Pon next to me is still looking at the screen, his hands folded in his lap and his back straight like me. Not for a second does he avert his gaze, but looks silently at the scenery that now shows him walking slowly towards the stage. The mood is already heavy and even the commentators are silent, but when the cut is made to a middle-aged woman, who is seemingly Pon's mother, the mood in our district drops to a new low. Carefully I again look over to Pon, who has a silent tear running down his cheek. He really tries to be strong, but he is only twelve. To be separated from his family so abrupt at that age, I can't even imagine his pain. It is incomprehensible to me that he is still so calm and does not start to sob. It is as if he wants to show everyone that he is strong enough. The need to protect him flares up in me. How I wish I could give the woman who's sinking to the ground in tears back her son. So very much. It would be so easy to promise Pon that he will return...</p><p>Our harvest seems even more sober to me as it continues, without much fuss about Pon's mother and the lack of volunteers, as I again see Cece lowering her hand into the glass, my name echoing across the square. A camera pans across the rows of girls, overlooking me at first and only a moment later zooming in on me. I look at myself and don’t recognize myself. My face shows no emotion, I look like a disinterested observer. Only when I get pushed does my disbelief show and I walk towards the stage with a bewildered expression. It seems as if I am in a trance. Not completely helpless, but still insecure. The likewise expressionless faces of my father and David are shown for a moment and I’m unable to see what they are thinking. But my little brother, whose eyes have widened and who irritates my father by tugging at his shirt sleeve, manages to make my heart contract painfully. I avert my gaze again.</p><p>Slowly the comments become louder again. Claudius gets angry about the fact that District four has below average tributes as rarely seen before. He implies that we all rather want to enjoy the beautiful summer. All in all, neither of them gives us good chances, even though we are from a career district, just not going voluntarily. Their disappointment is omnipresent and so our harvest is quickly faded out, they don’t want to waste too much precious airtime with this flop. And although I never wanted to go to into the games, their degradation annoys me. It's as if we were destined to fail in the first place.</p><p>The next districts offer less exciting tributes. In almost all the following districts the tributes are reaped with lots of tears being shed. Caesar and Claudius take part in all the moving individual fates with excessive drama in their voices, but their cheerful faces speak a different language. From a girl, still smiling despite the unfortunate occasion, who apparently has already accepted her fate, to a resigned boy, who has to be dragged onto the stage by the peacekeepers, everything is included. Some of them try to hide how they really feel and immediately turn to the cameras, hoping to draw the audience's attention to them, to stand out from the crowd, but most of the time they don't succeed.</p><p>Only one boy in District 9 succeeds when, after another has already been reaped, he calmly steps out of the ranks and strongly answers the question for volunteers, causing a commotion on all sides. Apparently it is his best friend for whom he will go to the arena. It is his appearance that, in addition to the careers, leaves a lasting impression on me. How bravely he stormed forward without thinking too long. At this point the commentators almost lose it. They speculate that he won't have much of a chance, because the tributes from Nine are in a bad shape and almost always die early, but maybe his story will move some people in the Capitol, which at least I'm sure it will. In any case, his chances look better than mine so far.</p><p>The sponsors are one of the most important things in the arena for the tributes, besides their mentors and of course their skills. Because often enough I have seen in the games how Tributes would have died of thirst or starvation if their sponsors and mentors had not ensured that they were given water or food. So together, sponsors and mentors also control the chances of us tributes. I wonder if I can rely on the winners from our district. At first sight they don't seem to have much success, if you look at the last 4 years where our Tributes died quite early or were simply too weak in the end, even killed by their former allies. But what do you expect from a pretty boy, an old woman, two oddballs and one like Amber? Not much, I guess. But now I have to put up with them, since no one else of our victors survived.</p><p>The end of the show is reached and an overview with all tributes is shown again, together with their age. Besides Pon there is only one more twelve year old, most of them are around sixteen or fifteen. There are also other eighteen-year-olds, including the career boy from One. I look at each face individually, trying to memorize them, as these will be, after all, my opponents in the arena. However, I will still have plenty of time to memorize their faces in the Capitol.</p><p>The final hymn of the Capitol ends this evening, while Cece tells us that we have to get up early tomorrow morning, because our daily program will be tight. With these words she hurries out of the wagon and leaves us alone. Only I remain undecidedly sitting on the couch, while all the others return to their compartments. All but one. Finnick Odair, of all people, remains with me in the room, which is only dimly lit without the television. He doesn’t address me as expected, instead he observes me in silence. I try to ignore him, but I don't succeed. I simply cannot explain why, but it drives me crazy when he stares at me like that. Maybe, I think, it's because I feel like he's thinking about whether I fit into his collection of female acquaintances? Which I would definitely deny. After all, I am not a cheap lady of the Capitol who would hang wildly giggling at his neck, but a tribute on the way to the scaffold.</p><p>Scratching up my courage, I turn to him and hiss:</p><p>"What is it?"</p><p>Or at least I try, because what is actually spoken sounds rather snivelling, which doesn't seem to impress him in the least.</p><p>He just shrugs his shoulders and replies:</p><p>"Not much, pretty girl. Just wondering what's on your mind."</p><p>If I only knew how to raise a single eyebrow now. It's not the first time I've wondered where he gets the nerve to call me 'pretty girl'. From his mouth, it sounds fake and untrue. But instead of giving him a counter-attack, my shyness takes over and all I do is blush again, just like at the dinner.</p><p>"Don't call me that," I merely bring out.</p><p>Finnick just laughs softly, then he gets up and turns to leave the wagon. Just before he disappears through the door, however, he turns around once more and gives me a look I can't interpret. He seems to be amused to a good degree, but something else resonates in me when he looks at me like this. It seems to be melancholy, but I must be wrong. Because why would Odair be sad? It's not him who will be the tribute.</p><p>"Sleep well, you silent beauty."</p><p>He disappears with a grin and makes me blush once more. What impertinence to talk as if we knew each other well!</p><p>I shake my head. I shouldn't spent my thoughts on Finnick Odair, his behaviour simply cannot be understood. I prefer to get up and go back to my compartment, where I drop all my clothes and get under the incredibly spacious shower. Although we had a shower at home, it seems ridiculous to me compared to all these programmes. There are programs that seem to wash and braid your hair, do a depilation or apply different oils. At least I think that’s what the small pictures next to the corresponding buttons mean. At random I press one of the many colorful buttons and regret it shortly afterwards. Alternating hot and cold water pours down on me, but I simply decide to let it happen. I flinch with every cold water jet and the hot streams almost seem to scald me, but when the program has finally run through and I stagger out of the shower with pink skin, I at least feel refreshened. I pull out one of the many nightgowns from the dresser and just let myself fall into the huge, soft bed.</p><p>As I roll over on my side I set my hopes on the fact that this whole mistake will surely be resolved quickly. When I wake up, I will be in District Four.</p><p>In my dreams I am standing on one of the salt marshes that line the district. Nearby, the sea is waving. I am waiting for David. Anticipation spreads inside of me. We always meet here, not far from the harbour. Seagulls are screeching. The sounds of home have a calming effect, I relax. Finally a figure appears in the distance. Slowly it approaches me. I want to run towards it joyfully, but suddenly the fog that surrounds it rips open. But instead of David, Finnick stands in front of me and laughingly shouts 'Hello beautiful girl' at me. At this point I snap out of my dream.</p><p>Of course I am not in District 4, instead the same exuberant chandelier is dangling from the ceiling over me as it did when I fell asleep. I'm still on the train to the Capitol.</p><p>It is still dark outside, no light comes in through the window. I also hear the soft crackling of raindrops on the roof of the train. For a moment I just lie still and enjoy the soothing sound. At home, when it rained, I loved to lie in bed and listen to him gently dripping onto the roof. Most of the time my little brother crawled into bed with me and we fell asleep again. From time to time I told him a story. I remember all the stories of sailors, mermaids and other sea creatures that I loved so much as a child. They are typical myths from our district, stories that were told to children already hundred years ago. There are countless legends about the inhabitants of the seas, not only mermaids but also other wondrous creatures are mentioned in them. My biggest nightmare as a child was for a long time the terrible sea snake, but now I only think back to it with an amused grin. The carelessness of my early childhood, what a wonderful time it was.</p><p>With a sigh I sit up and look out the window. In the meantime we have finally left the districts behind us and drive through the empty area around the Capitol, which separates it from the districts. You can see the first harbingers of the Capitol, signs indicating the distance to the Capitol, as well as the prohibition of access for unauthorized persons. We are just crossing a dark lake that stretches eerily to the sides like black ink.</p><p>I lean against the headboard of the bed. I could almost forget that only yesterday I was reaped as a tribute under the scorching sun. At least I should try to think positive, I tell myself. There is still time before the games begin. But time for what? What does this time mean if I have to spend it without the people who mean the most to me? The answer lurks in the back of my head. Practice, Annie, practice. I know what the games mean. They are not just a death sentence for twenty-three children, no, they mean fear, pain and torture. We have one week to train. Everything that is important must be learned in that one week, otherwise you will be in a bad spot. Training means I have to touch a weapon so I can learn how to kill. Kill. No activity has ever seemed more repulsing to me. Unwillingly, the thought of what it is like to raise a sword and thrust it through the body of a tribute comes to me.</p><p>I tuck my head between my knees and wrap my arms around my legs. No, I must not think of such things. A good person, that's what I am. I don't want to kill anyone else. But that's what you have to do in the Hunger Games if you want to stay alive. Fight, kill. All the things I can't do. I close my eyes firmly and conjure up the thought of my family again. I'd rather see their shocked faces than wield the sword in my mind.</p><p>David and my family. What would they say to me at this moment? I can see David before me. Grabbing me by the shoulders, looking deep into my eyes and saying:</p><p>"You can do this. Because if you want, you can do anything."</p><p>He's really good at encouraging me. Bring out the best in me. He always said I didn't have to hide. I'm beautiful and smart and the best girl he knows anyway. After that I started laughing every time. Even now a little smile is stealing onto my face. I would like to hear this speech again, even if I know what he said to me time and time again.</p><p>Suddenly I am torn from my thoughts by a little rumbling. Holding my breath I listen if I can hear anything else, but everything remains silent, no further rumbling follows. I am irritated and also a little curious, so I knock back blanket. From the chest of drawers I pull out a bathrobe of soft wool. On my toes I sneak to the door of my compartment and put my ear against it. Apart from the sound of my own blood in my ears I can’t hear anything. I shrug my shoulders and am about to return to bed when another distant rumbling sounds again. It shouldn't concern me if strange noises are heard on this train at night, I know that. It is not as if I would like to sneak through the dark train, but I am a little curious. I leave my compartment with the thought that I can just get something to drink.</p><p>The lamps on the wall are still burning in the corridor, even if only on the lowest level. In their sparse glow I can see that there is nobody in this corridor, so I continue my way towards the dining car. At the connecting door I find out the reason for the rumbling: The door leading to Pon's room cannot close because a slipper is lying on the threshold. Again and again the door tries to close and bumps into the resistance. A look into the room shows that Pon himself isn’t in there. I push the shoe from the threshold and the automatic door slides shut silently.</p><p>I finally find Pon in the dining car at the table where we had dinner the evening before. Apparently he can't sleep either. He sits on one of the benches and has his knees drawn to his chin, his eyes fixed on the windows.</p><p>He looks at me in astonishment as I enter.</p><p>"Hey Annie", he says softly.</p><p>It's the first time we've spoken to each other, until now our contact was limited to shaking hands during the harvest. I smile slightly.</p><p>"Hey Pon. What are you doing here?" I ask.</p><p>"I'm thinking about what's coming today," he whispers, his eyes now sweeping to the ground.</p><p>I let myself slide next to him on the bench, but keep a little distance. The raindrops run along the window and paint patterns.</p><p>"It's hard not to think about it," I confess, as this was my first thought as soon as I woke up.</p><p>"I wonder what the Capitol looks like."</p><p>Cheek to knee, Pon looks to me.</p><p>"Hm..." I mumble stretching my limbs and lean back. "I imagine it brightly lit. I'm sure there are lights at every corner. "And the houses are big and spacious."</p><p>"Some of them reach up into the clouds!" Pon interjects.</p><p>"Besides, everything is shiny, just like on TV. I'm sure there are no dirty streets."</p><p>"There are colourful dressed people everywhere, like parrots", I add.</p><p>He giggles before he gets serious again and says:</p><p>"But it scares me."</p><p>"Me too," I admit.</p><p>We sit there a little embarrassed before Pon goes on:</p><p>"I miss District 4."</p><p>That gives me an idea.</p><p>"Would you like to hear a song?" I ask.</p><p>Pon nods silently, a little surprised by the sudden change of topic, but I feel reminded of childhood songs. I dare to put an arm around him, but only gently, and sit cross-legged.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Deep down,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the sea, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the colorful reef,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh I wonder who lives there.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A Little Mermaid</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In her shellshard hut.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Look,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How she swims with the waves</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Swims with the waves</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Listen,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>how lovely she sings</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She sings</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A small miracle she is</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Look,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The way her hair shimmers</em>
</p><p>
  <em>her hair shimmers</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Listen,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How clear her voice is</em>
</p><p>
  <em>her voice is</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A small miracle she is</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Deep down,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the sea,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the colorful reef,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There lives a little mermaid</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She swims with the waves</em>
</p><p>
  <em>swim with the waves</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Forever.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I am not the best singer, I only sing for fun or for my brother, but Pon is happy. He puts his head on my shoulder and whispers:</p><p>"How I wish I could have seen one..."</p><p>"I'm sure you will." I reply, keeping his childish hopes up.</p><p>For a moment we remain like this as the train brings us closer to the Capitol.</p><p>"Unfortunately we cannot work together," Pon finally says.</p><p>For his twelve years he impresses me again and again. So far he has shown more strength than anyone could have imagined. If he wasn't only 12, he would be the ideal tribute. I remember what I was like when I was twelve and I'm sure I would just have cried. But this is Pon's strength, after all Caesar and Claudius have already underestimated him. Now he can show everyone what he is really made of, after all he has our team wrapped around his finger already, it only depends on his physical strength and... on luck.</p><p>"Maybe not that, no. But no enemies either," I tell him quietly.</p><p>He just nods.</p><p>"We should go back to bed and get some more sleep."</p><p>I get up and take Pon by the hand. I have to protect him a little, as much as I can. Can I take away his worst fear? I can feel the decision growing inside me that someone like this boy can't die. The thought of his unconscious mother is still all too present in my thoughts. Silently I take him to his wagon. We stop in front of the door.</p><p>"Thank you for the song, Annie. You are not a bad singer', he says and grins, 'but not perfect either. Not like a mermaid."</p><p>"I'm still practicing on that," I reply with a slight grin. "Sleep well, Pon."</p><p>I watch him disappear into his compartment and then return to mine.</p><p>Pon will get more sponsors, that's for sure. If he is lucky, he may even join the Careeros, because I am sure that he can and will train, after all he probably grew up with physical work. Actually I should be more worried about myself, because I have far more deficits than the small but brave Pon.</p><p>Tired as I am I let myself slide back into the huge bed. I am spared from further dreams with Finnick Odair, fortunately. But when I open my eyes again, I do not feel very happy.</p><p>It is morning – the morning of arrival at the Capitol.</p>
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